


Epithet

by lifewithoutcosette



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Once Crowley finds the right noun they have a good time, PWP, Short & Sweet, and i'm terrible at dialogue, aziraphale tops, bit of the, bit of the nsfw, i just wrote this to get it out of my mind, i really don't know how to tag this i'm terrible at tags, someone on tumblr called this poetry, this could also be considered, which is why there isn't much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifewithoutcosette/pseuds/lifewithoutcosette
Summary: He only remembers that something, some word belonging to his companion, tumbled out breathlessly as Aziraphale lapped at the place where his collarbones nearly met.It must be that word he wants, Crowley thinks.  And he tries.  At first he saysангелbut that doesn’t work, so he triesmalaikat, thenenkeliandengill.  He’s distressed and desperate -angel angel angel.  He says it in every language, but his frustration does not end.





	Epithet

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post stating that Aziraphale would insist on being called by his full name at all times.

Between kissing collarbones and palming cheeks, Crowley has said something that instantly drives the angel from thinking ‘I’d dearly love to kiss your lips until the dust of this world has settled thick upon us and a new civilization has risen’ to untucking Crowley’s shirt and shoving one hand down his trouser front. One gasping breath but Crowley is otherwise utterly still. This is very fast indeed. Still. 

He’s at once grounded - anchored against this wall .. utterly trapped… and at the same time feels like he could will new mountain ranges into being by the power of thought alone. He can see the swell of them, new peaks emerging in defiance and surging toward the night sky. The thrust forward into Aziraphale’s hand is not voluntary. _Necessary_ , surely. He swallows raggedly and meets the angel’s gaze.

 _Again_. It’s a command. He’s never known Aziraphale to give a command before. A distinct thrill of pleasure courses through him and he tries to pivot his hips forward once more but the hand withdraws. It’s clear his angel is waiting for something, but what?

Crowley remembers that first chaste kiss, how Aziraphale had lingered. How he had leaned forward when the angel had withdrawn. That blossom of desire pushing aside uncertainty…and the little kisses, unsure and faltering, that had followed as they’d tried to find their footing in this new place - one with no space between them. He remembers the nervous mumbling starting with an apology and how hard he’d attempted to stifle it, but that Aziraphale hadn’t tried to stop him…had just kissed him again. He remembers warm lips so very softly pressing against cheek and chin and jaw, then down the smooth line of his neck. 

He only remembers that something, some word belonging to his companion, tumbled out breathlessly as Aziraphale lapped at the place where his collarbones nearly met. _It must be that word he wants_ , Crowley thinks. And he tries. At first he says _ангел_ but that doesn’t work, so he tries _malaikat_ , then _enkeli_ and _engill_. He’s distressed and desperate - _angel angel angel_. He says it in every language, but his frustration does not end. And suddenly, as from some other plane of existence, he feels the right noun settle on his tongue. It’s like a relieved breath between them when he exhales it. It’s only proper. _Aziraphale_. He says it again as those lips he’s gazed at so often curl up at one side in a satisfied smirk. _Aziraphale_.

–

Laid out on his back on the bed, Crowley is a sight. Red hair shoved this way and that, lips bright with blood, bitten - swollen. Skin flushed in places, some familiar...some hidden until now. Eyes half closed, he moans low in his throat. Aziraphale withdraws his fingers and watches Crowley’s cock twitch in anticipation. But the angel doesn’t give in immediately. Instead, he trails three slick fingers up the inside of a pale thigh. He feels the flex over his shoulders as Crowley tries to use his legs to draw them together. Aziraphale’s hands settle over lithe hips, a steadying grip halts any motion the demon might attempt. 

He holds Crowley like that for a few agonizing seconds and then he lets go with one hand and grips himself, lines them up. When he does finally enter the world around them seems to thin. A distorted, no color wave of energy floods him and only increases until he’s buried deep. It’s a struggle to stay still. All he wants to do is move inside Crowley, all he wants to see are those eyes rolled back in pleasure. All he wants to feel is stiff flesh sliding against his slick palm. But first.

He is waiting for the word. 

His fingers dance lightly over the dark hair covering Crowley’s groin. He might come the second his name falls from those lips, but he’s going to try desperately not to. Crowley’s legs slip from their perch on Aziraphale’s shoulders, wrap themselves around his waist instead. Their eyes lock and Crowley takes in breath. _Aziraphale_ , he says, each syllable a perfectly articulated plea, low and longing. He does not feel any shame, he has already fallen and will beg until time stops if necessary. At the same time he squeezes the angel gently, pushing him in deeper. Reflexively Aziraphale pulls back, a sharp breath marking the sudden action, and then he slows…stops. He can feel Crowley tight around him and the urge to thrust forward is almost more than he can control, but he wants it again.

Crowley sees it in his eyes. He licks his lips and says it again _Aziraphale_ and suddenly there is a steady hand wrapped around the length of him, but the angel doesn’t move. _Aziraphale_. This time is more desperate…thinner. Aziraphale moves inside Crowley, his hand working in time with his hips. 

_Fuck, Aziraphale. **Agapetos** Aziraphale._

The angel’s eyes roll shut. He can’t bear this much longer, doesn’t want to. His name keeps spilling from those lips, and he’s not even sure if Crowley is conscious of saying it any longer.

His thumb swipes over the slick tip of Crowley’s cock and suddenly the name sounds different, a pleading reverence coming from somewhere deep within. He speeds up and Crowley bucks under him, words dissolving into groans. The world beyond where their skin meets ceases to be for Aziraphale. He cries out once, and it is the demon’s name on his lips this time.

–

They’ve both had their own individual conquests and dalliances, certainly. But later Crowley can’t recall any other instance where time had seemed so utterly still. Even as the sun, a bright yet lazy gold, rises it seems part of some distant, unrelated light show, nothing linked to the earth turning inexorably on its axis. He strokes a long languid line along his companion’s arm from shoulder to wrist. _Angel_. And Aziraphale lets it stand, accepts the substitute. 

This time.


End file.
